Wherever the Blue Skies Go
by K9Lasko
Summary: An undercover job implodes and DiNozzo is thrown into a violent surreality he may not ever be able to escape. Tony-centric, but the team plays a role. Set Season 3 or 4.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** More chapters to follow.

 **Warning:** Graphic violence, strong language, sexual assault.

* * *

"You gotta pull me out of here, Boss."

"We are; we're working on it."

That was the last NCIS heard of DiNozzo.

* * *

Begging wasn't helping, but he did it anyway because he didn't know what else to do.

They'd smelled bacon. Somehow. Tony couldn't pinpoint exactly when things went pear-shaped, but that last transmission to his boss and handler spoke of what might happen, and what ultimately did happen.

His options quickly narrowed to a pinprick soon after they realized DiNozzo knew nothing of real, applicable importance to them. And the violence and vitriol was only exacerbated by the revelation that DiNozzo had been specifically sent to become one of them, to infiltrate them, to act and play as if he belonged.

Tony wasn't just some dirty pig looking to get up on the take. He was an undercover pig tasked to destroy them. That was the worst kind, and they made him know it and feel it.

So he begged and begged, voice breaking from the strain of another night - or was it day? - spent screaming in mindless pain.

In reality - a place in which DiNozzo did not fully exist at this juncture - begging was more reflex than conscious choice. When he begged, he could listen to his own voice, and in a way, his own voice reminded him that he was still alive, and that - even if actively fighting was wasted effort - at least he could keep asking for his life. He could keep asking for a shred of compassion brought about by their shared humanity. He could beg for it. Even though - and here came pesky reality again - he was more than likely to get screamed at, and receive another boot kick to the head, than any sort of mercy.

Before, when he thought he'd be swiftly saved from this hell within a few unpleasant hours, Tony challenged his tormentors. He laughed in their faces, even while drooling blood and reeling from their blows. He took his lumps with stubborn aplomb and came up with rude nicknames and inventive insults for every face he met. He could not be shaken, he thought. He'd take what they gave him, and he'd give it back, too. Two or threefold. Once Gibbs and the others came for him... He would be saved, just like it ought to be and just like it always was. Until that happened, he'd give these low-lives hell.

But that was then.

This was now.

Now, he hadn't the spirit left to fight anything off - fly or man alike - but still he managed to cling onto the prospect of escape with torn fingernails and the thin skin of his teeth. This was survival, or its distant relative. Forget bravery or grit or any sort of pride.

Forget rescue. Forget Gibbs.

He had to _not get dead._

This would be a long haul. But shorter now as they'd stopped feeding him.

His options shrank to nothing.

* * *

The man sitting in interrogation is several pounds beyond merely fat. "I ain't saying nothing to nobody," he says. He's immense, hunched over and hulking in the straight-backed chair, clothes tight and stretched. "My damn dog bit me. That's all."

A sheriff's deputy had pulled him over for a broken taillight. A quick check with dispatch brought back a bench warrant for unpaid child support. Then there was the trip to the ER for the alleged dog bite wound.

Sitting across from him is a sallow-eyed detective. A bargain-rack suit drapes from his bony shoulders, and he's got more stress lines on his face than hairs on his head. He flips through the papers in front of him, a coffee ring stain on the first of them. Boredom presses in thick. He starts, "ER doc stated the wound isn't characteristic of a dog bite. Can you explain that?"

"Lawyer," the man responds, jowls quivering.

The detective leans back and looks toward the observation room as if to say, "well, that was fast."

The door opens. A worried face pokes through, saying, "Uh, detective? I think you're gonna want to hear this."

* * *

Biting the hand that fed him had been a mistake.

They kept him in some kind of a dog run in a windowless room. Small and cramped. Maybe four foot by six foot. The floor was a rubberized grate raised ten inches from the solid concrete below. The confinement went straight to his head, and when he could no longer tell the days apart, his behavior became less rational and a whole lot more feral.

"Wakey, wakey, Agent Dipshit," the fat one crooned, as he always did

And then, also as he always did, he opened the kennel door and cuffed Tony about the head while thrusting a bowl of dry, stale cereal at his face.

"Time for din din, Sparky!" The fat man laughed. "You gotta be hungry!"

But this time, instead of yelling vitriol or grabbing the bowl and throwing it at his captor's face, Tony did something different. He caught the man's beefy fingers between his teeth and ground down - hard. The bowl of cereal fell with a clatter, flakes spilling everywhere, as the Fat One screamed and tried to yank his hand away. Growling, Tony reached up to grab him around the throat, clearly using the shock value of the bite to his advantage. But the victory was short-lived.

A whole slew of goons showed up to take care of the situation. But the fight hadn't ended once the man's crushed digits had been laboriously pried from between Tony's teeth. He lunged at the closest man - the Lazy Eye one - but somebody else reacted quicker and slammed the cage door into Tony's face, briefly stunning him. Hands grabbed him roughly by the jaw and slammed his skull against the cinderblock wall once, twice, three times. He could not count how many times; things were spinning around wildly, and the next thing he knew, he was sprawled on his knees against the wall, breathing hard. He couldn't move. And even though his ears were ringing, he could hear arguing going on around him.

The feeling of bones cracking in his mouth lingered. He could feel it over and over again. And the taste of salty skin and, later, blood slid down his throat. The Fat One still whimpered nearby. Tony barked out a demented laugh even as he slid further down the wall. Something warm and wet dribbled past his ear.

Once the arguing stopped, Tony knew he was in for it. This would have been the perfect time for Gibbs to round that corner, gun held up and ready. Would have been perfect! He'd give up his ninth life to hear somebody call out, "Federal agents!" It didn't even need to be Gibbs. He'd take Ziva, too. He'd love to see Ziva and her assorted pocket knives! Even the McProbie, still green as grass as the kid sometimes was. He'd fall over in absolute relief if he saw McGee! Anybody!

They dragged him down the hallway, into a kitchen, and to a sink that Lazy Eye was joyfully filling with hot water. They smashed his face into two inches of it. The faucet kept pumping scalding water on the back of his head. He bucked and jostled, gagged and coughed as the sink continued to fill. He felt himself being pulled upright at intervals. He could focus on nothing else but sucking in air and hacking out water. It took two of them to hold him down, rough hands forcing his face into the stainless steel sink bottom. Each time they lifted him back out of the water, he wrenched his body around, still attempting to get away, but it was useless. They rammed his face back into the water. It sloshed out, landed on the floor, on the counter, all over everybody. But the faucet was kept on. When his knees began to give and his body began to loll, they hauled him out for the last time and tossed him to the floor.

Watery vomit dripped from his mouth after a hard gag. Breaths wheezed in and out. In an act of retribution, the Fat One stepped on his shaking hand, grinding it into the dirty floor with his heavy-soled work boot, all while smiling down at him.

"Oh God," Tony rasped, finally. "Please stop. Stop! Please!"

And so it began. More begging. The remaining notions of rescue left him here to suffer. Where the fuck was Gibbs? Where the fuck was anybody?

They'd left him here. They'd left him as bait for these wolves.

Lazy Eye and the others laughed at his body spread out and dripping on the cheap linoleum. They spit on him and faked kicks at his head. He shielded himself with trembling, stiff hands. The stomped-on hand felt like it was on fire. He could hardly move it.

"Stop," he half-sobbed.

With a hyena-grade laugh, one of them - aptly nicknamed "Crazy Bastard," Tony disjointedly remembered - unceremoniously unzipped and aimed a stream of urine at Tony's head. Despite the pressing exhaustion and his weakening hold on consciousness, Tony thrashed in disgust, attempting to drag himself away from the piss. But Crazy Bastard moved with him, laughing more frenetically than ever.

It was Rational Rita, the only woman of the group, who finally spoke up in Tony's defense. She seemed shy and reticent, and must have come late to the "party." She nudged Crazy Bastard on the shoulder. "Stop it. That's disgusting. I gotta cook in here." Surprisingly, he did.

"Oh shut up, you," Fat One dismissed the woman as he pressed his boot onto Tony's throat, in order to make him still. Thoroughly terrorized, Tony stared up at him, eyes bulging. The man smiled slowly, teeth crooked white nubs. "Pathetic," he barked, laughter in his voice. "Pathetic pig. Thinks he can bite like some dog."

Tony grabbed weakly at the boot that was making breathing rather difficult. The others laughed at his struggling.

"Fucking pig," the man went on. "Gonna beg for his sorry life." He pressed his foot down harder. Tony's mouth fell open in response, and he began to choke. His good uninjured hand gripped the man's jeans and tugged, weakly. "But we're gonna make him squeal."

Tony felt hands ripping at his pants. Cold air stung his thighs as they were ripped away. The Fat One had taken the boot off his throat, but now he was kneeling down and forcing Tony over onto his belly.

"Big brave pig is pissing hisself," Crazy Bastard sing-songed from nearby. "He's pissing hisself!"

* * *

"Bag it," Gibbs says to McGee, who's holding a bloody beer bottle in gloved hands.

"There was a struggle," Ziva muses. Her eyes rake over the scene. Her lips are stuck in a grim frown. The sink is half-filled with water polluted with hair and strings of frothy drool. The counter and the floor are wet. There are blood smears on the floor. The small room stinks of urine and fear.

Gibbs grits his teeth. "Yeah. There was a helluva struggle alright."

"You think he might've got away?" McGee asks. He's still crouched on the floor, hopeful eyes raised and stuck on the boss.

Gibbs doesn't know. How could he know? He stands there and looks around the room, hand scratching at the hairs on the back of his neck. McGee and Ziva both are looking at him now, waiting for some great insight to come forth. Gibbs has nothing for them, or for DiNozzo, wherever he is. "Let's keep doin' the scene," he says, "c'mon."

Later, they find the dog run.

* * *

He did squeal. It was an inhuman sort of scream. He fought as hard as he could. Crazy Bastard sat on his head, no doubt in an effort to quell his wild struggling. It ended up being a small mercy. The suffocation served as a distraction from what they were doing to him. It took him a long while to die.

Except he hadn't died.

He wished he was dead.

There was a radio on nearby. Despite the trauma - or because of it - the current song stuck to his brain, playing on repeat.

 _Sweet Caroline... Good times never seemed so good..._

Took a while, but he finally stopped fighting. Exhaustion left him spent and numb.

And eventually, he stopped begging, too.

* * *

There's no moon tonight and the winding rural road is pitch black and deserted.

Gibbs almost runs over the dog. He swerves the car at the last moment, tires squealing in protest. McGee and Ziva hang on for dear life while Gibbs applies the brakes, bringing the vehicle to a hair-raising halt.

"What was that?" Gibbs asks, voice calm.

"Uh, think it was a dog, Boss," McGee says.

"I could see that much."

"A pit boar," Ziva suddenly adds. "I think it was a pit boar."

McGee makes a face and corrects her. "Pit bull, Ziva."

"Pit bull," Gibbs repeats in a mutter, even as he's reversing the car. "Said he had pit bulls."

The dog is still there, and they can see it clearly in the glow of the headlights. It has a stout body and dark fur with a single white mark on its chest. Not a wonder why Gibbs almost ran over it. Its tail wags fiercely.

"You think that-" McGee starts.

"I don't think, I know," Gibbs says. "This is it."

There's a dirt driveway to their right. No mailbox.

"This is it," he says again.

* * *

Tony woke to a warm tongue licking his neck. Awareness came slowly, and when he managed to open his eyes, he found himself eye-to-eye with one of the many pit bulls. He kept still, afraid that any move he made might set it off. But for right now, it seemed content licking at the blood that had dried to the side of his head and neck.

He felt woozy and miserable. His hand ached, his head ached, his ass ached. Everywhere ached. He realized he was half-naked and lying on the living room carpet, its pile long beaten down by general filth and dirty shoes. The TV was on, and the smell of baking chicken competed with the stench of urine and vomit that clung stubbornly to him. There were two other dogs in the room. They rested in separate crates and watched him silently. He closed his eyes.

This was the end. He was already past the end.

"Go on! Get out of here!" an unfamiliar voice scolded.

The licking stopped and the dog walked away, to the kitchen judging by the sound of claws against linoleum.

A foot nudged Tony's shoulder roughly. "I know you're not sleeping, Agent Dee-Nozzo."

Tony roused, body shifting with drunken lethargy. He struggled to look upward, though his eyes kept threatening to roll into the back of his skull.

The foot nudged him again. "Hey."

Tony jerked back into semi-lucidity. The disjointed black blur above him slowly took shape into a man, the face distantly familiar, but he couldn't place the voice. Body buzzing, Tony tried to speak, but when his mouth opened, all that came out was a garbled croak.

The man leaned down, something in his hand. Tony flinched at the stinging burn he couldn't locate. His uninjured hand rose up, batting away at nothing. "That's a good boy," the face hovering above him said. "A good boy." He felt a hand in his hair, stroking.

The room began to cave in and then spin around.

From a distance, he felt his body coughing and retching weakly, and he heard that song again.

 _Sweet Caroline… I believe they never could..._

* * *

 _TBC_


	2. Chapter 2

**Warning:** This story is… odd. That's all I'll give away.

* * *

The knife cut the meat into perfect, symmetrical slices. He watched the bloody juice ooze out and gather on the plate. Pieces of the edges, charred and black, sloughed away.

To a man half-starved, it smelled good; it smelled so damn good.

"You must excuse him," spoke a man at the head of the table. He wore a finely tailored suit, gray in color, nearly black; a white dress shirt, pressed within an inch of its life; gold cuff links and a fine wristwatch; a tie, blood red. "He's out of his head right now." He looked up to glare at the one who'd delivered DiNozzo here.

A server in white gloves had finished carving the roast and now distributed the slices to all of the white bone china set around the table. Only four plates. One in front of DiNozzo, hands cuffed tight behind the back of the chair. The second in front of the man at the head of the table. The third in front of DiNozzo's minder, also dressed in a suit, but a bit more economical, more threadbare. And the last, in front of a woman wearing an ivory pantsuit, red lipstick and deadly sharp pumps. The room they sat in was immaculate. Opulent, even. The ceiling soared up above. The décor, tasteful. Beethoven's Piano Sonata Number 8 played gently in the background.

Only Tony appeared truly out of place, his body stinking and his mind feral. Nobody had yet touched their food. It smelled too good. He stared at it, head lolling a bit to one side. The drool began to dribble down his chin.

"Strange," the woman said as she put out her cigarette in a pristine crystal glass of ice water. "I thought he'd be a bit more… lively."

"Any more lively," the frumpy man spoke, "and we'd be sowing our digits back on. Fucker nearly bit clean through one of my guy's fingers!"

"Please, Bradley," the well-dressed man made sure to interject. "Not at the table." He shook his head, picked up his fork and knife and began to saw through his share of the roast. He brought a piece to his mouth, teeth clacking on the silverware, and when he chewed, the loose skin on his cheeks quivered.

Tony drooled some more. His mouth hung open as he gawked in plain view of everyone. Oblivious yet still present. The room seemed to rise up around him, spin, then settle back down. He gagged.

"And he's bruised up," the woman added, sharply. "Looks like shit, Adrian. I came here because you said you had something special."

"Please, Tashya, let us eat first. The meal is getting cold. Then let's talk business." Adrian carefully lifted another forkful of food to his mouth, chewing mechanically, cloth napkin tucked neatly into the collar of his fancy shirt.

Bradley, the one who'd brought DiNozzo, finally picked up his fork. DiNozzo could do nothing but drool. And Tashya grabbed a dinner roll and sopped up the juice gathered on her own plate.

"How much did you drug him, anyway?" she asked.

"Enough to keep the fucker still," Bradley mumbled through a mouthful of endives.

Adrian suddenly slammed his fork down, almost upsetting the nearby glass. "PLEASE, Bradley. Do refrain from such vulgarities in front of my guests."

Tony began to moan, softly at first. He blinked and shook his head, as if to clear it. The t-shirt and scrub pants he was dressed in were filthy. His skin itched. Again, the room tilted, then it sank.

"He looks starved. I need them to be strong." Tashya leaned back in her chair and lit another cigarette. She blew the smoke toward the chandelier, apparently bored with all of this. "They need to fight; not sit there and stare out into space." She flicked some ashes into the water glass. "Maybe you didn't understand me when I stated the amount of money I'm willing to drop into this whole thing, Adrian. I don't wish to be made into a fool."

"Oh, he can fight," said Bradley, in between gulps of meat. "Believe me. He's one testy mother-fucker. Don't look it now, but you wait, lady. This one here's a fucking wildcat. You won't be disappointed. Better than the last, by far. Ain't that right, Dee-Nozzo?" Bradley shoved at Tony's chair with a boot. Tony rocked along with the chair, unable to do much else. He muttered something under his breath, the sound wet and slurred and incoherent.

Adrian pushed his plate away. He took the napkin from his chest, wadded it up, and tossed it on his plate. "Thank you, Bradley, for that wonderfully articulated testimonial. But this is what we're going to do…" He leaned down and came back up with a black pistol in hand, barrel aimed across the table at Bradley's chest. The guy didn't have any time to react before Adrian pulled the trigger with deadly, calm aim. Two shots to the chest, another to the forehead. The report echoed down the hall. The server recoiled slightly, blood spatter staining his white uniform.

Slowly, both the chair and Bradley tipped backward, landing on the hardwood floor with a cracking thud and a gurgle.

Tony had flinched at every shot, and now he dry heaved into his own lap. The music transitioned to Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. The gurgling stopped.

Meeting Adrian's cool gray eyes, Tashya blew more smoke toward the chandelier.

He set the handgun gently onto the table in front of him, where his plate had been, saying, "Dear Tashya, I understood you perfectly."

* * *

At the end of the long dirt drive, it isn't a house but a trailer home, propped up on blocks, broken lattice underneath. There's one light affixed to the top of a pole in the yard. It shines yellow and bright, illuminating the surrounding woods. Something green grows on the plastic siding of the trailer. And there's a dog yard. The stakes and chains and dog houses abandoned. There's no barking.

They approach, slowly at first, weapons drawn but pointed toward the ground. All three of them. Gibbs and McGee and Ziva. Their shadows stretch out, long and black.

A window AC kicks on. No light shines from the windows.

"I'll go around back," McGee volunteers.

Gibbs nods, and Ziva says, "Be careful."

McGee swallows. He will be. He disappears into the black shadows and the weeds that stretch out from the woods.

The front door is dented, as if it's seen more than one raid. Ziva covers while Gibbs leans in to twist the knob. They're surprised to find it unlocked. Communicating with each other silently, they begin to clear the trailer. There's no one. Nobody. Just empty rooms and the pervasive smell of dog shit and mildew.

"Hey!" McGee's yelling from out back. "Guys!"

Gibbs slams open the back screen door, and it nearly smacks McGee right in the nose.

"What is it?" Ziva's asking.

But McGee's only staring at them, mouth open a bit. He manages to say, "Saw it in that overflowing trash can." He holds "it" up.

Tony's wallet and fake ID.

* * *

"Uh detective? I think you're gonna want to hear this," the lieutenant with the worried face says, door ajar just enough to fit his head.

The detective nods and looks back at the fat man with the bandaged hand. This piece of meat is taking up too much space and breathing too much oxygen. The room they're forced to inhabit is stuffy enough. "I'll just be a second," he says.

In the hallway, the lieutenant looks even more worried. "Really, Harv. This might be something big."

"What's going on?" the detective asks, scratching his nails against the stubble on his chin.

"Just got a BOLO issued for his vehicle. Something about a missing person of interest."

"Got a name?"

"Uh," the lieutenant fumbles with his papers, squints his eyes and cocks his head. "Uh, Anthony…" He cocks his head more.

"Can you read or not?" the detective deadpans. He checks his watch, and scratches his chin again.

"Anthony Wagner. That's it."

"Who issued it?"

"Uh, some federal agency. NCI—Jesus, Harv, is that an S? My eyes—"

Detective "Harv" removes the paper from the lieutenant's hands and gives it a quick read. "NCIS."

"Maybe they're after the dog fightin'! Everybody knows the people in those hills are gambling and fighting everything from pigeons to… I honestly don't know what else."

Harv shrugs and says, "Give them a call. Tell them we have someone here they might want to talk to. Also, get legal up here. Our fleabag wants counsel."

* * *

This was a movie. It had to be a movie.

The picture vacillated into and out of focus right in front of his face. But the more he tried to focus, the less he could see.

One moment he was upright. The next he was upside down. On his side. Turned left, right, spun around.

Somebody grinned at him. The woman, maybe. Her lipstick was as bloody as Bradley's shirt. The streaks of red fanned out, and out. Dead eyes without sight or life.

"I won't buy this sad creature," somebody was saying, "unless it can prove itself."


	3. Chapter 3

**Warning:** Dark. Graphic violence. Sexual assault.

* * *

He hated the blue juice. The stuff in the syringe.

Not the other stuff, the clear stuff. That just made him tired and loopy and quasi-paralyzed, and it made him see things that weren't necessarily there. Sometimes they were nice things. Nice people. Nice places. A small bit familiar, even.

But the Blue Juice. When the Blue Juice came, he knew things were going to get very real very soon. When the tech in blue scrubs held tight onto Tony's arm with blue latex hands, he'd learned not to fight him off, even when the Blue Juice was pulled out, when they worked on finding a vein. He'd fought the first and the second times, but they got it into him anyway, both times, and by that time he'd been so exhausted, so strung out — heart threatening to burst from his chest and gallop far, far away from here — he'd almost lost it and everything else.

So now he took it. Stood still. Let the tech stick him with that damned needle, pump that Blue Juice in. Pump it in!

Then the crazy lady grabbed him by the face, her eyes black and her lips painted that same shade of blood red, her high-heels taller, sharper than usual. Fake painted nails bit into the flesh of his cheek. He'd started breathing hard, knowing it was coming: the awful high the Blue Juice brought. Swift and violent. The physical and mental frenzy tinged in red.

She gave his face a rough shake, demanding, "Pay attention!"

Dull hazel eyes rolled around in his head, but he tried to listen and look right at her. Luckily, the three versions of her were beginning to merge into one. He mumbled, "'m here."

"You'll learn to like this," she told him. "All of this."

The crazy lady kissed him then, her mouth greedy. Even if he'd wanted to participate, he couldn't. Before she pushed his face away, she bit his lip hard until it bled.

Tony didn't even flinch.

She looked him over. He wore nothing but a pair of freshly laundered pair of scrub pants. She raised a hand.

For that, he did flinch.

But she only smiled and stroked his head. "Win us some cash, baby."

Then he was pushed past the gate and into the pit.

* * *

Detective Harvey "Harv" Prize has several ways of doing police work, and none of them are fast.

He and Gibbs clash straight out of the gate. But Harv isn't the type to bend over and take it in the ass.

He says, "Look here, Agent what was it?"

"Gibbs," Gibbs answers, looking strung out from sleepless nights and too much coffee and no fucking information on his senior field agent. Gone. Missing. Probably dead in a ditch somewhere getting pecked at by vultures.

The guilt hangs from him like cobwebs. Too much. It's sucking the life out of him, hour by hour. Day by day.

He finds he has to push Tony out of his head in order to function. Because otherwise he's paralyzed, thinking of all the what ifs, combined with the things he already knows. What he must've gone through back at that house. The dog run. The sink full of water. The blood and the piss. The beer bottle. He'd smelled fear there. Heavy and real. So much fucking fear.

 _Where are you, Tony? God, I'm trying…_

"Okay. Look here, Agent Gibbs, we have a way of doing things, and you'd be best to take a seat there, and I'd be happy to go over some things with you."

"No, you're gonna answer my damn questions."

"Sit there," Harv repeats. "I'm the best ally you got right now, son."

Gibbs eyeballs him. They look to be the same age. If anything, Harv is a touch younger, despite the male-pattern baldness. Must be a figure of speech. Reluctantly, he sits.

"Now, who's this…" Harv has to consult the paper again, "Anthony Wagner to you."

"He's…" Gibbs pauses. He weighs the risk of sharing Tony's true identity. What if these people are in on it? What if Tony's been found out, but not _found out_ found out?

Harv raises his brows, waiting. There are several creases in his forehead.

He goes with his gut feeling. "That's not his name. He's Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo, and he works for me. Been working undercover for a few weeks now under that name."

"Okay," Harv is frowning now, as if he's just now wrapping his mind around the severity of what potentially has transpired. "What was he workin' on?"

"Wasn't supposed to be that big a deal," Gibbs shrugs. "Just some Navy guys and their dependents laundering cash money. DiNozzo was checking it out. He's got the sleaze-factor for it. He was perfect."

"But you lost him."

Here comes the guilt. "He called us, said things were looking bad. Said he found out some other details. He couldn't elaborate," Gibbs says. "We were ready to pull him out. We had most of what we thought we needed for our case. Then… Nothing."

"Radio silence."

"We checked all of the properties tied up in the case. Found where they must've been keeping him."

"Probably been moved since then," Harv supplies.

"You know of something I don't?"

"These people…" he starts. "These people aren't to be toyed with. Bunch of country bumpkins they are not. Had a girl that disappeared not too long back. Maybe a coupla years ago. No trace of anything. Until we got a tip. Found she'd been moved all the way to Orlando. That's Florida. Can you believe that?"

Gibbs can.

"Yeah, guess they had her working the streets. She was fifteen. They traffic people, Agent Gibbs. Your guy must have figured that out."

Gibbs grunts. If there was anything to find out, Tony would've gone and found it out. "Find her alive?"

"No. Body. Dead in a park. Strangled by one of her johns most likely. Hey look, I wanna help you with your agent… the BOLO you put on that vehicle—"

"Tony gave us that information. You know, before," Gibbs said. "That's what one the guys was driving. Big guy, Tony said. Heavy set. Put BOLOs on other vehicles as well. And a man: Bradley Hood."

"Well, we got the driver of that vehicle in custody now. Not Bradley Hood, though."

Gibbs runs his hand through his hair. "Why didn't you start this off with that?"

"Needed to know what you were all about. Now that I do, I want to help you out."

"Where is he?" Gibbs demands.

"Lawyered up, I'm afraid. But, he might be willing to part with some information in exchange for, I don't know. Something. The guy is a ding-bat, Agent Gibbs. Yes sir, no sir, don't ask questions… You know the type." Harv stands up and turns to go, but then he turns back around. "His finger was bit up bad. Said it was his dog. Doc said it was a bite, but it was no dog bite."

* * *

"Ladies and gentlemen!" the announcer shouted through the bullhorn. "Are you ready for a show?"

The crowd wasn't huge, but it was sizable. A few cat-called and whistled. More clapped. Maybe twenty to thirty people. A throng had assembled in front of a booth where a harried attendant took hundred dollar bills and handed back receipts.

The pit spread in front of them. A caged in area, slightly lowered from the main level.

Tony stood alone, watching the crowd and trembling.

He could feel the Blue Juice working through him. He clenched and unclenched his fists. He should've been watching the opposite gate, where his opponent would ultimately emerge. But he found himself scanning the faces in the crowded, looking for somebody familiar. Anybody.

The crazy lady had disappeared. His lip still smarted.

* * *

"What do you think? Still like him?" Adrian asked her from their glass enclosed booth high above the fray. He sipped a glass of red wine. Straightened his tie.

The view from up here was perfect, and far away from the smell of it, and the sweat and the gory details of the event.

Tashya shrugged and blew her cigarette smoke at the ceiling. Then she grabbed her cocktail and sucked at the dregs before running a tongue over her teeth. "He's fine. I can already see he's very brave. Tenacious. Won't give up."

"Sometimes that's all you need," Adrian said.

"It never lasts," Tashya replied, her voice unenthused. Bored. "The ones that last are those sick fucks with the drive to kill."

But Adrian was ever the optimist. "The crowd seems to enjoy an underdog."

Tashya hummed. "He'll make us money. The club needs money." Then she laughed. "Consider him a marketing expense." She took a long drag from her cigarette, blew the smoke out her nostrils. "Well, he'll do that for me. When he is done, assuming he's still alive, I'll wash him out." She smiled easily and raised her glass for the attendant. "Please, dear, another."

Adrian knew what "wash him out" meant, having been present for more than one. Tashya always attended herself. She seemed to take joy in it. A large syringe of Euthasol and an 18 gauge needle was usually all it took. It was meant for animals, pets… things like cats and dogs and horses, but she'd found it equally useful on those humans who needed "washing out." She would sit there with them, stroke their heads and promise them that soon it would be over.

And it was. The pink stuff was quick. Took only seconds. Maybe some gasping was involved, but that was it. Done.

Tashya grinned at Adrian. "Guess I should thank you, then."

"It's my pleasure, Tashya."

They both watched Tony as he still stood alone in the pit, waiting for his foe. But he wasn't watching the other gate. He was watching the damn crowd, just like he did every single time.

Tashya sighed deeply. "He won't learn."

"What's that?"

"Every fight he's staring out at the crowd."

"What's he looking for."

"I don't know." Tashya again blew smoke at the ceiling. It curled around a light fixture. "His salvation, maybe." Then she laughed.

The attendant returned with her drink.

"Thanks, doll."

Adrian chuckled as well. "Oh here we go."

The opposite gate finally opened.

* * *

Tony stands alone on the periphery of an empty ballroom. It's made up fancy, like for a wedding reception. Dozens of tables and chairs are set up. Pots of deep purple orchids in the middle of each.

He's wearing a tux.

She rounds the corner, wearing a beautiful flowing blue gown. Her skin is flawless and white. Her dark brown hair falls loose around her shoulders. There's a bouquet of red flowers in her hands. He doesn't know what they are.

He stares at her, stares into her eyes. Warm and brown and familiar. He wants to crawl into them, for safety, for salvation.

"You never thought this would happen, did you, DiNozzo?" She finally speaks.

He shakes his head.

She is close enough to touch now.

He reaches out and says, "Kate."

"You're imagining this," she says.

"I know."

"Will you be okay?"

"I don't know." Tony's voice is barely above a whisper. "Don't you know?"

She shakes her head. Kate reaches out, strokes his face. "Don't cry."

Tony says, "I'm not."

They sidle in closer together. So close they can feel each other's breath.

"If anybody can get through this," Kate says, "you can."

He shakes his head.

"Look at me," she says.

He does. He wants to go to bed with her. Wants her to touch him like he wants to touch her.

But Kate's shaking her head. "It's not real. None of this is real."

"Why not?"

"It's just not."

Tony leans in. She does, too. They kiss.

It gets rough, and suddenly, she bites his lip hard enough to draw blood. He jerks open his eyes, but he doesn't see Kate's face, he see the crazy lady's. Her grin is like a cat's, opportunistic and greedy.

He backs up. The room swirls away.

She's saying, "C'mon Tony. That's what people call you, isn't it?"

He doesn't know where he is anymore. He feels naked. Exposed. There's a hand on his dick, pumping it. He can't move. He's tied up. He bucks, but she pulls hard, causing him to gasp.

"No," he slurs. "Stop."

The crazy lady sinks on top of him, eyes closing.

"Stop. Why are you— No," Tony goes on, even as she starts to thrust against him. Gently at first, then roughly.

"Shut up." She clamps a hand around his throat. That shuts him up. "You like it. Don't you?"

Yes or no. He can't say.

* * *

The brawl was surprisingly brief.

Tony spun around to meet his opponent, who came out of the gate raging hot, hell-bent on destroying. The guy bowled him over, and they tousled for several minutes on the ground, no sounds but the occasional grunt and pant of breath.

Hands grasped at each other, squeezing and tugging.

When they finally broke apart, they both were gasping for breath.

Tony didn't attack first. He never did.

His opponent came after him again, pounding him with a well-trained assault that Tony clearly hadn't been expecting. Tony extricated himself and retreated to the other end of the pit, bleeding.

Avoidance wouldn't work.

The guy came again. And again.

When they broke apart for what had to be the fifth time, Tony staggered back to his side. The other guy seemed no worse for wear. Bloody, yes, but it was Tony's, mostly.

Briefly, Tony looked at the crowd again, and that was when the other guy put out his final offensive. Tony met him, ferociously. He got lucky. Grabbed the guy by the neck with his arm, and he squeezed and squeezed.

They slipped and fell together, rolling over and over in the dirt. Tony squeezed. The other guy's sweaty hair stuck to his face. He kept squeezing and squeezing, the rage coming as hard as his breaths. Even when the other man had long gone limp, Tony kept his hold. Squeezing and shaking him

Attendants rushed the pit now to separate the two, but Tony began dragging the limp man by the neck, slowly, attempting to evade them. The body jerked a few times.

The guy's head was at an unnaturally angle now, and when Tony finally let him go, he flopped bonelessly to the dirt, dead or nearly there.

Tony felt nothing. No sorrow or regret or grief. Numb. The blood began to congeal on his face. The skin tightened and pulled.

Again, he looked at the crowd, which was now cheering wildly. It was deafening. Blinding. Hypnotizing. He began to turn around and around, to get a look at them all.

Their underdog had won. They waved their papers around.

A swell of dizziness rolled over him as the world tilted once more and he fell off the edge.

* * *

"You're imagining this," Kate says, still dressed in that blue dress. "All of this."

They're standing shoulder to shoulder on the top of a roof. The night sky stretches above, and far below are the streets, streaked with white from headlights rushing this way, that way.

Tony turns his head to look her way.

"It's not real," she says. "None of this."

Is this heaven, or is this hell?

Kate reaches out, again, just like she's done before, touches his face, wipes the tears and the dirt away. Her hands are cold.

"See it through, DiNozzo. See it through 'til the end."


	4. Chapter 4

**WARNING:** Mentions of sexual assault. General violence.

* * *

Most, they managed to pry from his grip alive.

A few, they couldn't.

Or wouldn't, because when he was tripping on that substance they pumped into him each and every time, nobody could get near him, let alone touch him or reason with him. On the blue juice, he wasn't even human.

He'd look up at the crowd, his adoring fans, and he'd fantasize about which one he wanted to get ahold of next, which one he wanted to kill, but he couldn't tell their faces apart. They all melted into one screaming and writhing amalgamous whole.

Soon, he started waving at it - the teeming, frenzied, singular mass - and he smiled, big and wide and vacant.

It almost incited a riot.

He loved his new fan club.

* * *

It's Ziva who grabs Gibbs by the arm, and it's also Ziva who says directly to his face: "Enough. There is nothing more we can do tonight. We need to rest."

McGee watches, on the edge of disagreeing with her, because he wants to find Tony just as much as Gibbs does. Maybe more, who knows. He can feel it somewhere in his chest, like an ache that pulses and pulses. And he goes over what few facts they have, everything they found at the house.

He can't imagine. He just cannot imagine.

Because he misses Tony's uncanny wit and his sometimes inappropriate irreverence, and he misses looking to him for advice and a different angle, and he's so fucking worried about him it's making him physically sick.

McGee voices none of this, and instead watches the altercation, still on the edge of disagreeing with Ziva, but now seeing her point. She is pragmatic. Always pragmatic. He waits for Gibbs' next move.

"Officer David," Gibbs grinds out, his arm still clamped in her grip. "You don't make the decisions."

"I am well aware of that," she says, her calmness eerie. "But we have nothing else right now, and running ourselves into the floor will do nothing for Tony. We will be exhausted, mentally and physically, and yet still have nothing."

"Ground, Ziva," McGee suddenly points out. "Running ourselves into the ground."

"What does it matter?" Ziva snaps. Then she asks him, "Don't you agree, McGee? This does not make sense."

McGee is almost afraid to answer the way he wants to, because now he knows that Ziva is right. Doing things Gibbs' way doesn't really make sense, logically. Emotionally, it might, but getting caught up in emotions won't find Tony any quicker, if at all, and Tony needs them smart and sharp right now.

"You agree," Ziva presumes. "We rest tonight. We get back to it in the morning."

All the while, Gibbs stands still and stares at Ziva's hand gripping his arm. He finally wrenches himself free. He's a proud man, but he knows when he ought to set it aside. He says, "Get some rest. We'll regroup in the morning."

They know how hard it is for him.

McGee packs his things in his backpack and dreads the world caving in on itself, and Ziva is the one to reach out and touch Gibbs on the shoulder. Nobody has to say anything to know what the other was thinking.

* * *

Abby had been nothing but snot and tears since the moment DiNozzo turned up missing, but now, weeks after the fact, she has nothing left but steely determination.

She processes every bit of evidence with the utmost care, digs into every possible angle as deep as she can go, works all night on projects McGee gives her. When she writes her reports, she detaches from herself and enters a world of clinical, sterile professionalism that lets in no feeling or opinion. It's important, she knows, to get this right.

With the black polish on her fingernails chipping away, Abby types _beer bottle likely utilized to sexually assault victim_ and _semen found at the scene indicates_ and _evidence obtained from a five by six animal enclosure_ quickly and efficiently. Then she prints, e-mails, files. It's a process she's gone through daily in her job. Nothing new.

But she never forgets what's at stake. She keeps a photograph of him at her desk, and another one in her wallet. She misses him, just like everybody else does; she wants to see him rescued and saved.

The cold reality is: they are no closer than they were weeks ago.

Abby keeps it together, which is astounding considering how often she wears her emotions on her sleeve, for all to see and experience along with her. She keeps it together, until she gets to McGee's place.

They lie on the bed together, fully clothed, and when she turns her face into his side, her tears soak through his t-shirt.

"I hurt," she says. "I physically hurt."

He pulls her closer.

She goes on, "What do you think he's thinking right now? While we lie here, what do you think is happening?"

McGee doesn't know, and she knows he doesn't know.

So, finally, she admits, "Maybe I don't want to know."

And, finally, McGee says, "You probably don't."

* * *

He was in a field. It spread out for miles in every direction. Up above, there was blue sky, cheerful and clear. The sun kissed his skin, and a warm breeze ruffled his hair. There were flowers all around; he didn't know what they were, poppies or tulips or whatever they might have been.

With legs of a newborn colt, Tony staggered around a bit, almost pitching forward and backward into the grass several times.

"Where am I?" he asked no one.

No one answered, "Isn't it nice? Maybe you should stay."

He staggered even faster, hoping to catch something, but he didn't know what. A butterfly flapped around benevolently, flower to flower.

The horizon tilted alarmingly.

Tony screamed at no one, "Where the hell am I?"

And no one replied, "Isn't it nice here? I think you should stay."

Up above, the sun's rays got noticeably hotter, more hostile, and Tony, drunken on his unsteady legs, reeled around.

Kate watched him, still wearing that blue dress, flowers still in her cold hands, although now they looked on their way toward death.

That was where Tony was headed for sure.

He wanted to weep, but he didn't. Couldn't. There'd been enough of that.

She had one request: "You'll see this through to the end."

"How?" he cried out, stumbling toward her, but he could get no closer, because every step he took seemed to push her further away. He screamed again, maddened to the point of stark insanity: "Tell me how!"

She only asked, "Won't you?"

All he could think: "I want to die. I just want to die."

* * *

In those brief windows he was allowed lucid thought, Tony watched and collected and compiled. His body ached and stung, but his mind was free, for the most part, even while drugged, and he'd quickly learned that his mind was going to be the only weapon he had, and it would be the only weapon that had any chance of defeating this system.

His hands, and his body, and his drug-induced craze… that was all carefully managed. But his mind? His mind was left unchecked.

There was a method to this madness, so when they feed him, he eats.

When they drug him, he stays still.

When they put him on the treadmill, he runs.

When they beat him, he obeys.

When they rape him, he forgets.

And when they put him in that pit, he fights.

But most importantly, when they talk, he listens.

* * *

"What do ya got, McGee?" Gibbs asks.

McGee frowns, because he has exactly nothing, but he's been digging all night for a kernel of something; it's just a hunch. He wasn't going to share it yet; he prefers to get his ducks in a row before making a total fool of himself in front of Gibbs, but there's something about a detail Detective Harv had shared a week or so ago. It's something that refuses to let him go.

And there's something else… an expression on Gibbs' face, a strained frown, desolate and hopeless.

"I think they took him out-of-state," McGee says. He almost doesn't recognize his own voice, it's so confident and matter-of-fact.

Gibbs gives him a long look. "Well go on," he urges. "What else?"

McGee lets out a gusty breath. "Okay, remember when Detective Harv told us about that girl?"

Gibbs grunts.

"He's in Florida. They took him there. To Orlando. Like they did with that girl. I know this; I can feel it." McGee instantly feels stupid, but he lets it stand, having nothing better to say for himself.

"Proof?" Gibbs asks.

"Just a hunch. Uh, my gut." McGee's voice is so quiet, but it's heavy with conviction.

Nearby, Ziva watches and she smiles.

"Good enough for me," Gibbs says as he turns. "Call around down there. Put out feelers."

"Oh, I already did," McGee reveals. "And I got a lead… maybe… it's possible…"

Gibbs looks toward the ceiling in annoyance, but he's smiling. "Well, why didn't you start with that?"

* * *

The first thing he felt was the heat. Heavy and wet. Like a moist blanket swaddling him all over.

When he came back to himself, and when he could see what was real again, he saw a city streaking by the window near his face. Pavement, strip malls, people waiting for buses, palm trees, thick clouds leaden with rain, cars cars cars cars cars.

Traffic.

Where had he come from? Where was he going?

Palm trees.

"He still asleep back there?" someone said.

"Naw, he's looking out the window."

A hand gripped his arm, and Tony watched, strangely apart from this scene, as the needle and syringe were readied.

"Don't blow another vein," the someone said again. "Kid's arms are all fucked up."

"I won't. Watch the damn road."

He barely felt a prick as the sedative began to flow. His head grew heavy once more, and his cheek rested gently against the door frame.

A sign whizzed by.

Welcome to Orlando.

The City Beautiful.


	5. Chapter 5

**Story Notes:** WARNING. GRAPHIC VIOLENCE. DARK SUBJECT MATTER.

* * *

Tashya sat out on the verandah and watched a burst of orange sunlight flood over the live oaks draped thickly in Spanish moss. The suite she'd chosen was comfortable, luxurious even, and she took this moment to smoke a couple cigarettes, drink a cup of coffee, and plan out the near future.

NCIS Special Agent DiNozzo was their party trick, but he'd already started to lose his novelty. Florida brought new opportunities, income, and challenges — but she wasn't top bitch here, and she had to play careful and smart. She felt like she should be making a strategic move, but she didn't know quite what that was yet. She didn't think it would involve a cop, though, and the truth was, the more they showed DiNozzo off, the more people would be watching.

The more people who might realize what he was.

He was a continued liability.

He'd made a strong debut in Orlando, Tony had, and he'd almost killed the other guy outright. He'd been the favorite, by far, and he'd drawn a decent crowd. But…

She blew smoke at the rising sun.

There was always that "but."

* * *

Tony wasn't keeping well. Mentally, he was stark raving mad.

They drugged him heavily daily to ensure he wouldn't hurt — or more likely, kill — anybody. They duct taped his mouth to shut him up, and when they couldn't do that, they locked him up in a closet, behind a steel door, because he liked to talk, and sometimes he'd talk non-stop. Most of it babble. He'd narrate his non-sensical thoughts, speak to people who weren't there, somebody named Kate, and others, too.

He rarely slept, choosing rather to lie still and stare at imaginary objects. Sometimes he'd move his limbs, and act out imaginary scenes. Or, during periods of surprising lucidity, he'd scream and yell and declare that someone named Leroy Jethro Gibbs was on his way to kill them all. All of them would be dead. All of them.

He ate irregularly. Wasn't keeping weight on, and that made him weak and lethargic. He turned his nose up at the dried-out jonnycakes and the stale saltine crackers and the plates of bland canned beans they pushed his way.

And when they plied him with something that he seemed to like — grilled steak, medium rare — he ate it with so much gusto, he nearly choked himself. He'd spend hours afterward vomiting and clutching his gut.

Tashya knew that some adjusted better than others, but this one seemed not to be adjusting at all. He was either a tough nut or incredibly simple-minded and stupid.

"Don't know what's good for you, do you?" she said. "You've got the raw aggression, but you don't have any sense. What a disappointment. You could have it so good here, if only you'd cooperate. You could have it so good."

* * *

"So you're saying," Ziva leans over her desk, her eyes dark and hard, "that the FBI is aware of this organization."

FBI Agent Fornell stands in front of them, face grim. "We've been running an op that will soon bring it to its knees. We didn't know your DiNozzo was there, but now that we do…"

"Now that we do," Gibbs interjects, standing up and going toe-to-toe with Fornell, "we're going in, getting him out, and bringing him home. A-SAP."

Fornell nods, and doesn't move away from Gibbs' challenge. "That's the plan. But before we do that, we have to get some things ready. We had the raid scheduled weeks out; we aren't prepared."

"No," Gibbs argues. "We do it now." He looks at Ziva, and he looks at McGee. "You all ready?"

"I am," Ziva says.

Everybody now looks at McGee. Even Fornell, who already knows that Gibbs can't have it his way. It's not his op; it's not his call.

"I'm in," McGee says, voice quiet and honest.

"Great," Fornell says, "So am I, but we have to do this right. I have several UC guys already in. This project is several months in the can. We're working with the MBI in Orlando, as well as Orlando PD detectives. There are several moving parts. I know you, Jethro. I know you understand the value of doing things carefully." There's an edge of sarcasm in that statement.

Gibbs turns away in disgust and waves his hand. "Okay. Let's do this. Your way, whatever way. I don't care. Let's get my agent. Let's bring 'im home."

* * *

She touched him, and he reacted, physically, but he never looked away from the wall. Even when her hands caressed him, when her lips sucked at his, he kept staring at the wall.

He was an empty, vacant shell, out of his head.

She rode him hard, making them bounce on the squeaking bed, while she groaned and gasped, and took from him whatever she could and whatever she wanted.

When it was over, he whispered to the wall, "How was I, Kate? Was I okay?"

And when Tashya saw the tears on his face, they only pissed her off. She slapped him hard. When he seemed not to react, she slapped him harder.

* * *

"He's not the underdog anymore, Adrian," Tashya said as she dragged the file across the jagged edges of her nails. "He's the favorite."

"He'll win this match, too. He's a vicious creature."

She sighed, contemplating her words. "This is his last," she declared. "I'm washing him out. He bores me."

"He's too valuable," Adrian argued.

"He's a means to an end," Tashya said. "Always was. Tell me you have someone new in mind? We need someone new."

* * *

Fornell runs a comb through his heavily greased salt and pepper hair. He studies himself in the mirror and straightens his tie. He looks perfectly sleazy. The cheap suit hangs off his frame just right.

And then he smiles, slow and crooked and cocky, and it completes the ruse.

They have a federal agent to rescue.

One of the agents running surveillance has a grim face as he says, "One of the guys said there was a fight a couple days ago."

"And?" Fornell presses, turning toward the other man.

"I don't know," the agent says. "We know he wasn't standing when they dragged him out of there."

Fornell looks back at the mirror. He asks, "Did they secure me a meeting with Adrian Best?"

"Yeah."

"Good."

* * *

Tony fought like he knew this fight would be his last. It wasn't like all the others. Sure, it was just as ruthless and brutal, nothing but violent bloodsport for those who looked on. But he'd grown weak. He'd been ill; vomiting, fever, not eating, always sleeping. The lethargy had seeped into his bones, where it threatened to stay.

Even the prerequisite shot of Blue Juice did little to incite the frothing ferocity he'd previously been able to display.

This fight was rigged.

The other guy was huge, and he went after Tony with one goal in mind: Kill. Kill. Kill.

Tony dodged and evaded, snuck in attacks doggedly, pecking away at his opponent's aggressive offense, but the big guy managed to snag him by the arm, yanking it nearly out of its socket.

Tony cried out, and the crowd hollered, louder and louder. It was deafening; it beat down on them, as Tony struggled against the stronger hold, eyes wide in fear and knowing he was clearly outmatched.

The other guy got Tony in a headlock. Only after a protracted battle did he manage to rip himself out of it, albeit in a state of hypoxic confusion.

Together, they fell onto the mat, and they grappled at length. But Tony's movements were too slow, too uncoordinated. It seemed to last forever, just the two of them rolling around in this brutal wrestling match.

For every decent hit Tony got in, the other guy got in double and triple. A particularly vicious fist to the temple blackened Tony's vision briefly, and his opponent took that opportunity to straddle his middle and grasp ahold of his exposed throat, squeezing and pressing down.

Tony was aware enough to realize this was the endgame for him. His mind screamed, "No, no, no!" But the other guy was bigger, stronger, and now had a considerable upper hand — and he wasn't letting go. Tony's hands clawed blindly and he desperately jerked his body, looking like a spasmodic fish out of water. Bloody drool frothed from his mouth as he gagged.

He didn't want to give in. He wasn't going to give up. He jackknifed his body once more, managing to briefly dislodge the killer at his throat.

The crowd erupted once more.

But his opponent only got a better grip and squeezed tighter. Things got strangely quiet in Tony's own head as his vision swam in and out of focus.

* * *

"He's losing," Tashya commented, bored, as she watched the two men flopping around on the mat.

"Is it any surprise," Adrian said, "considering the opponent?"

"No." She sipped her cocktail while the bigger man beat a fist into Tony's head. "Should we let him be killed?"

"No, we can still get some money out of him. Quick, call down. Have them stop this."

Tashya still watched, movements lazy. Tony was fighting against the stranglehold. "I don't know."

Just then, Tony bucked the guy loose, and the crowd cheered. But it was short-lived, as the opponent repositioned himself on top of him.

"Tashya…"

Ring stewards waited outside the pit, ready to rush in if they got the call.

Tony's movements faded from deliberate to sloppy to involuntary, as his legs and arms began to jerk.

"Fine." Tashya leaned over for the phone.

* * *

He was bloody and barely cognizant, his shorts wet with his own piss, when they finally pried the other guy off of him. Wheezing and too exhausted to sit up, Tony stared up at the crowd. He tasted his own blood and felt nothing but buzzing numbness.

* * *

"May I interest you in another future for this man?" Agent Fornell asks.

"What is that? He's half-dead. I think he's seen enough." Tashya sits with Tony as she strokes his matted brown hair. He's drugged to the gills. Out cold, and curled on his side. There are old bruises covering his face, drool seeping out of his mouth. He's laid out on a hospital bed, stinking of piss and sweat. A thin sheet covers him to the shoulders.

But Fornell can see Tony's condition for what it is: he's emaciated and suffering from injuries from his last match. They're starving him and leaving him to suffer. Fornell wonders if it's some sort of punishment. He wants nothing more than to get this man far away from this hellish place, if not to save him then to let him die in peace and comfort.

He steels himself. "Sex work," he answers bluntly.

"Too old," Tashya says, then laughs. "Too dangerous."

"Well, it's possible in this specialty niche I'm offering," he says. "Men who want to fuck. He can be restrained, if need be. Or drugged. My clients only want to fuck. I can name you a fair price."

"For this bag of bones?" Tashya seems incredulous, but the gears in her head are turning. She looks down at the man lying next to her. She honestly wonders how much this half-dead creature could fetch her. "Do share."

"$10,000."

She laughs.

"More?"

She says, "No. He's not for sale. I don't sell. You can understand. Too much risk."

After Fornell leaves, she goes to Adrian and declares, "You're right. He can make us money yet. Call up your old friend. Ask him if he has any interested clients."

* * *

He didn't know how to react anymore, so he simply allowed it. Laid still and obedient, as they came and went, taking what they wanted from him. He forgot how to wince, how to feel the discomfort of it. He almost couldn't feel the hands on him, all over him. He was numb. Dumb. Just let it happen. Again, and again.

He let it happen, as if he had a choice.

He was as good as dead anyway.

They'd left him here.

Even Kate had left him here.

* * *

"Whaddaya mean they're not gonna sell him, Tobias?" Gibbs asks.

Everybody is quiet as they sit around the table in the hotel's small conference room.

"She won't, and it would arouse suspicion to offer too much."

"So now what?"

"We're all in agreement; we have to do the raid tomorrow night. Everything is in place."

"No, we do it tonight."

"Not possible. We go in tomorrow night. There's no discussion on this one, Jethro."

"So how is he? He okay?"

Fornell answers vaguely, "We're going to get him out."

* * *

They're injecting it slowly. The drug, bright pink in color

Tashya sits by his head, stroking him, saying "it's okay, it's okay." It's like she's done with the others.

He's limp in seconds. Dead in a few more. The agonal breathing goes on for too long, then the body is quiet and still.

Tony watches in awe from the bed. He's so miserable. The raw emptiness of hunger and isolation eats through his insides, and he can't wait for his turn. This is, perhaps, the only injection he'll welcome.

He's next, isn't he?

* * *

The body lies forgotten on the blue tarp for what feels like hours, and Tony is forced to keep watching it. There is conversation nearby. He can hear the hum and cadence of it, but he's too weak or depressed or injured, or any of these things combined, to raise his head to look.

He didn't really know that man. Saw him once or twice in passing. He can see the man's eyes, hooded and unfocused in death.

Tony feels he might be haunted by him until his own release.

* * *

As soon as they find him, he's struggling to get up. It takes a few tries, and a monumental effort, to get his muscles and bones moving, and when he finally gets to the end of the bed, he collapses in a heap.

Suddenly they're on him, all over him, saying things like "Agent DiNozzo?" "Stay down, stay down." "You're okay now." "Are you the only one in here?"

Tony recognizes no one, and none of the words process in his trauma-adled mind. He writhes on the hard tile floor, striking out viciously at whoever he can, growling and frothing at all of the hands and faces he can't recognize.

Somebody's arm gets too close to his face, and soon his teeth are sinking into the meat of it.

"Jesus!" cries the man attached to the arm. Somebody grabs Tony's jaw and pries it open.

Three people hold him down, while a fourth keeps ahold of his jaw and head, but he's so weak now, it hardly seems necessary.

"Start the IV," someone directs. "Where's the stretcher?

Tony feels his arm being tugged away from his body.

"Bad veins. Bad, bad veins."

"Get creative then. Kid's shocky. Need to push some fluids. Maybe a sedative."

"Already looks drugged."

"Draw some blood."

Tony doesn't have any more energy to fight. He's limp, spread out flat on his back and breathing in short labored gasps and staring eerily at the wall, at nothing.

"Hey kid! You hold on."

"Getting creative! Got it!"

* * *

For Tony, everything goes in and out of focus. Everything stings. Everything smells like fear and desperation. He can feel himself writhing, but he can't remember asking his body to do so.

Suddenly, a man's face appears above him. A receding hairline. Greasy slicked back hair. Ears that stick out. Hard brown eyes. His mouth is moving. He's shouting something. But Tony can't hear. Nor can he understand.

A hand reaches for Tony's face. Tony's limbs jerk spastically, but they've been tied, or cuffed, or otherwise restrained. His mind screams.

 _Enough, enough, enough._

* * *

Gibbs is the first one who confronts Fornell, outside the hospital in the large ambulance bay.

"You got him?" he asks in a rush. "You got him out?"

Fornell nods. His hair is still greasy, but no longer perfectly slicked back. It sticks up at odd impossible angles, and his suit is a wrinkled mess, stained with smudges of blood.

"I need to see him, Tobias," Gibbs demands. But he's stilled by a firm hand on his shoulder.

"Jethro," Fornell says. "Slow down. Yeah. We got him out, but—"

"But what?"

Fornell looks beyond Gibbs and sees the team, or what's left of it. McGee and Ziva. They are standing there, each with twin looks of grim determination. Because they know what they might find here, although maybe they should feel a bit more optimistic.

Gibbs stares at Fornell like he holds all the answers. All the answers that could assuage his raw and burning grief.

Gently, Fornell squeezes Gibbs' arm and says, repeating, "We got him out, Jethro. We got him out."

* * *

TBC


End file.
